


Wolf About Town

by havisham



Category: Werewolves of London - Warren Zevon (Song)
Genre: Dark Comedy, First Meetings, Getting Together, M/M, Musical References, Romance, ToT: Battle of the Bands, Werewolf Courting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:01:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27067552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: It wasn’t as if Jim Zivotovsky was astrangerto picking up strange men at the park and bringing them home. Usually these men weren't bloody werewolves, but Jim was a modern man.He could take all sorts and he did.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	Wolf About Town

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coaldustcanary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coaldustcanary/gifts).



Jim met Dorian while walking in the park one moonlit night. He was cutting through the greensward on his way home from the pub. Dorian was covered in blood, having just recently killed someone. 

Jim stopped in his tracks and took in the scene. He’d heard news reports of the werewolf attacks, of course, but he’d never expected to see one himself. “Excuse me,” he said. “But has anyone ever told you that you look like the actor Alan Bates?”

Dorian blinked. His lantern-yellow eyes grew smaller and less bestial. He became a shade less hairy. After a moment or two, he was just a very handsome man with shockingly dark hair and beard, along with blunt features and fearlessly blue eyes. He also seemed to be wearing little more than rags, though the rags seemed to have been a perfectly tailored suit before being ripped to shreds. 

“No,” he said. His voice was very cultured and precise. “No one’s ever said that to me before. Are you a fan of Mr. Bates?” 

“A little,” Jim admitted. “I dabble. Er, do you need some help? The police seem to be looking for you. For all the murders, I guess.” 

“I can’t help killing; it’s in my nature. Do you live near here?”

Jim waved vaguely in the direction of his flat. “I have a place nearby. But I can’t bring you up, you know. My landlady would complain.”

“I can handle her,” Dorian replied. He looked at Jim expectantly. 

After a moment of hesitation, Jim took the lead. Ruefully, Jim thought that when he had first decided to make the great metropolis of London his home, he certainly hadn’t expected to bring werewolves back to his place, no matter how handsome they were.

He gave Dorian his trenchcoat to cover his nakedness — and most of the blood — and Dorian thanked him. During the short walk from the park to Jim’s flat, they learned each other’s names and other essential information. Jim’s landlady did not make herself known as soon as they came in, and so they were able to tramp up the steps to Jim’s flat. 

“This used to be a grand mansion. I think I have what used to be the room of the third least favorite daughter of the house,” Jim confided. He unlocked the door and opened it with a flourish. 

Dorian peered in. “It’s very pink.” 

“So it is,” said Jim, who was feeling much drunker than he had been before. The shock of seeing Dorian in all of his lycanthropic glory had faded. He felt mellow and comfortable. “Shall I show you the bath?” 

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” Dorian replied. He dropped Jim’s trenchcoat to the floor and Jim immediately picked it up again. He guided Dorian down the hall to the bathroom. He tried to wash out the blood stains from his coat as Dorian bathed. 

“Tell me, how does one become a werewolf?” Jim asked as he scrubbed a particularly stubborn stain. There was really nothing to be done about it, so he gave up and tossed the coat into the laundry box. 

“You’ve got to be strong enough to survive it,” Dorian said. “I was a silly young thing, messing around in the woods in Kent when it got me. Turned out to be my father’s gamekeeper, Timmons. It was an awful to-do.” 

Jim perched on top of the laundry box and crossed his arms across his chest. He hoped Dorian didn’t mind him lingering here, looking at him. But the truth was that there was certainly quite a lot to look at. Dorian was just about the most beautiful man Jim had ever seen. And it was quite apparent that Dorian knew it. He beckoned Jim closer and Jim went. 

Dorian’s eyes seemed to glow with the light of the full moon. When he smiled, his teeth were sharper than before. His voice was husky when he said, “What can I do to thank you for tonight, Jim?” 

There was a voice in the back of Jim’s mind, raised in warning. _He’s going to rip your lungs out, Jim._

JIm coughed and cast down his eyes. “How about sex?” 

Dorian relaxed and sank back into the bath. “That I can do.” 

What followed was the most amazing few hours of Jim’s entire life. This wasn’t his first time at the rodeo, but with Dorian, all the same old things seemed amazing and new. Just _touching_ him was a delight — Dorian’s body ran hotter than an ordinary man’s; perhaps it was the wolf in him. Whatever it was, Jim soon found himself flat on his monstrosity of an Edwardian bed, the iron frame shrieking as Dorian gave it to him to a fantastic degree. 

It was bliss, it was agony; Jim wished it would never, ever end. Even after Dorian had licked the come off his thighs and enveloped him in a tight embrace — oh, the feeling of skin against skin felt amazing and right. 

And in the early morning, Jim woke to the sound of scratching at his kitchen door. Sleepily, he stumbled out of bed to let the dog out. It was only after he closed the door behind him that he remembered he didn’t _have_ a dog. 

*

It wasn’t as if Jim Zivotovsky was a _stranger_ to picking up strange men at the park and bringing them home. Usually these men weren't bloody werewolves, but Jim was a modern man.

He could take all sorts and he did.

When Jim had left Chicago to see the world, he’d promised himself that he would live as authentically as he could. If he couldn’t be himself, he wouldn’t be anyone at all. 

As such, he had lost contact with his family — except for his sister, Glenda, who called him sporadically, and usually only to complain about her husband and kids — but Jim didn’t mind it. He was free and it was lovely. He had wandered about and found himself in London. It was a hard town to survive in, as a gay Communist part-time writer, but Jim got by doing various waiting and bartending jobs. 

It was on such a job that he saw Dorian Mayfair again. 

It was a big to-do for some Royal Society for the Preservation of Rare Birds, or something like that, and Jim was readying himself to bring out another tray of champagne. He was in his best tux, but in such rarefied company, he was as good as invisible. He spotted Dorian first, coming into the ballroom, arm in arm with an old woman who might have been the Queen. 

Dorian caught Jim’s eye and smiled like a stranger. 

But then again, Jim reminded himself, he really was. 

*

After the party, as Jim waited around to be paid and possibly bring home some of the masses of uneaten canapes, he felt a nudge at his shoulder. He looked up to see Dorian leaning against him, as casual as anything. 

“What’s up?” Jim said, startled.

“I’m hungry,” Dorian replied. “Do you like beef chow-mein?” 

“Don’t you have a little old lady to snack on tonight?” Jim asked, exasperated, but Dorian shushed him. Jim’s boss came by with an envelope of cash. Thus paid, Jim left with Dorian, who took him to Lee Ho Fook’s as the rain washed Soho clean of any lingering bloodstains. 

*

Of course it bothered Jim that every time he met with Dorian, a poor soul somewhere in the city ended up dead or mutilated. Jim wasn’t heartless — human life was important, such as it was — or brainless: dating a werewolf, however perfectly turned out, was dangerous. 

He had to figure out what to do about Dorian. His chance came one night at Trader Vic’s, where Jim was tending bar. Dorian came in, his hair perfect, and ordered a piña colada.

The time had finally come. Jim would do something at last. He took a deep breath and slapped down the bill in front of Dorian. “I know you like piña coladas, but what about long walks on the beach?” 

Dorian leaned forward eagerly. His eyes were wide; his teeth were sharp. 

His hair was still perfect. 

“Darling,” he said, “I like nothing better.” 

*

When Jim and Dorian returned, bronzed and happy from their time in Greece, London was absolutely overrun with new reports of werewolves. Such was the price to pay to live in such a city — it was enough to drive absolutely anyone wild and howl at the moon. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my betas! 
> 
> Please Google Image search Alan Bates, you'll thank me.


End file.
